The Way Back to Happiness (4 page)

She couldn’t believe now that she’d ever
wanted
to leave her mom. Even for a second.

“If I’d only known how things really were,” Gladdie said, “she might not have—”

Alabama jumped up. “She didn’t
do
anything! It was an accident.”

Gladdie’s eyes widened, and after a moment, she nodded. A tear slipped out of the corner of her eye.

Despite Gladdie’s assurances, after the tapioca incident Alabama became more nervous than ever that she would be packed off to New Sparta. That couldn’t be allowed to happen. She had to do something.

“If I can’t live here at The Villas,” she told Gladdie later that afternoon, “then I wish I could rent a place of my own nearby.”

Gladdie hooted at that suggestion. “You’re fourteen.”

“I can take care of an apartment. I took care of Mom and me.”

This was true. Alabama often had to remind her mom to pay the rent and bills every month. She was the one who’d dealt with the super when the bathtub drain backed up with black sludge, or soothed the neighbors when Diana spent two days listening to Janis Joplin at wall-shaking volume. They might have been evicted several times, if not for Alabama’s intervention.

“I’m sure you’re capable,” Gladdie said. “But I don’t think a fourteen-year-old is allowed to sign a lease.”

“I don’t want to live with Aunt Bev.”

“I know, but—”

“And if I were here, nearby, I could take care of you.”

Since her arrival, she’d done all the stuff for Gladdie that she’d managed for Mom—reminded her to take her pills, tidied the apartment, played cards with her at night. Her grandmother was getting over pneumonia and wasn’t as strong as she’d been the few times Alabama had visited before.

“I don’t see why you even live at this place,” she told Gladdie that evening. “You’re not as old as most of the people here.”

“I’m seventy-seven.”

“So? Some of the people here are in their sixties, but they seem a lot older than you. You don’t really belong here.”

This was what she’d decided: The easiest solution would be for Gladdie to move out of The Villas. This would be best for Gladdie, who didn’t seem all that happy in the old folks’ home. If they left together, she could continue to look after Gladdie, and Gladdie would be her Bev buffer. It would be best for both of them.

At first she didn’t think Gladdie was listening. But then she noticed her grandmother zoning out while they were watching
Falcon Crest,
which was Gladdie’s favorite show. She loved Jane Wyman.

“I saw Arnelle asleep in the lobby today,” Gladdie said during a commercial. “She was sitting there with her chin collapsed on her chest. The receptionist had to go over and poke her to see that she was still alive. I hope I never reach that point.”

“Please!” Alabama rolled her eyes. “You’re not even close to that yet.”

“Neither was Arnelle, when she first moved to this place.” Her voice was sharpish. “That wasn’t so long ago, either. A year and a half.”

After that, Alabama thought her grandmother was paying attention to the show. During the next commercial, though, Gladdie mused, “I do miss having a little garden. Growing my own tomatoes. Those grainy things they serve downstairs are pitiful.”

Alabama sighed shamelessly. “I’ve never even had a garden.”

Naturally, there was a stumbling block. Named Bev.

“Move out? No—the whole idea is ludicrous. You only moved in here two years ago!”

“Maybe that was two years too soon,” Gladdie said.

“But where would you move to?”

Aunt Bev had seemed agitated since she’d walked in the door. It wasn’t hard to guess that Brenda Boyer had given her an earful on her way in, but Alabama also sensed something else upsetting her. Her radar for gauging unhappiness had been fine-tuned over the years.

“We’ll have to find a place,” Gladdie said.

That
we
brought Bev’s focus to Alabama, and her irritation was clear. “The easiest solution for everyone would be for Alabama to come live in New Sparta. Soon, before the school year begins. And before this place ends up kicking both of you out.”

Gladdie rapped her hand against the arm of her chair. “They won’t have time to evict me. I’m leaving here on my own steam. I never belonged here in the first place—
you
were the one who was telling me I couldn’t cope on my own.”

Red flooded into Bev’s cheeks and Alabama thought she was going to witness some real fireworks. Then her aunt took a deep breath. “What are you going to do about money? You barely have enough to cover the bills here.”

“Because this place is costing me a fortune. As far as I’m concerned, that’s another good reason to leave.” Gladdie must have been worrying about finances a lot. The orange slice jar was practically empty. “We might have to rent an apartment. A small one, right at first. Or who knows? We could decide to stay there permanently.”

“I like apartments,” Alabama said.

Bev leveled a glare at her. “Excuse me, young lady, but you’re fourteen. You should not be deciding this matter.”

“Why not?” Gladdie’s voice sounded as hot as Alabama’s face felt.
Young lady?
“She’s going to live wherever it is we end up. And we can’t stay here.”

Bev’s temper boiled over. “But you
can,
Mama. I know your pride’s hurt now because they’re giving you a hard time, but you’ve got to see this situation from their point of view. If they make an exception for Alabama, they’ll have to make exceptions for everybody.”

“You’ve been talking to that mousy Boyer woman.” Gladdie sniffed at the thought of Brenda. “She can’t even stand up to a few petty biddies.”

“You signed an agreement when you moved in here. You have to live by the rules.”

“Not if I move out, I don’t.”

Bev jumped out of her chair. “How will you and Alabama manage on your own? She’s fourteen and you’re . . . well, it’s been a while since you’ve taken care of a place.”

Alabama liked the stubborn tilt of Gladdie’s chin. She wasn’t going to change her mind. Thank God. “Alabama’s a real helper. See how nice this apartment looks?” She conveniently gestured away from the leaning tower of boxes in the corner. “Look what she did yesterday—got the tea stain out of your rug.”

She always called the rug in the middle of the living room “Bev’s rug.” Alabama wouldn’t have claimed it, either. Obviously one of Bev’s craft projects, it featured a giant orange-and-yellow daffodil against an olive-green background.

The moment Gladdie mentioned the stain was gone, Bev forgot all about the argument they’d been having and sank to her knees, inspecting the part of the petal where the old mark was now barely a shadow. She rubbed her hand over the hooked nubs and then glanced at Alabama in surprise, as if she hadn’t thought her capable of doing anything useful. “I tried and tried to get that out. What did you put on it? Vinegar?”

She shook her head. “Scrubbing Bubbles foaming bathroom cleanser.”

Bev bit her lip and leaned back on her heels. Her face crumpled, as if she were about to finally burst into tears. Alabama had never seen anyone so demoralized by her own stain removal failure.

“For pity’s sake, what’s wrong with you today?” Gladdie asked her.

Bev swallowed, trying to compose herself. “I got rejected this week.”

Alabama had heard Gladdie muttering about some guy named Glen, who was Bev’s boyfriend, or lover, or something. Imagining Aunt Bev’s sex life was enough to gag a maggot, so she tried hard not to think about it.

But when Bev said she was rejected, Alabama assumed she was talking about this boyfriend. She took vicious pleasure in asking her, in complete innocence, “Who rejected you?”

“NASA,” Bev said.

Not the answer Alabama had been expecting.

For a second, she could only gape at her aunt. “Huh?”

“I got the letter on Tuesday telling me that they’d turned down my application.” Several tears spilled down Bev’s cheeks. “I mean, I knew they probably would. What were the chances? But it’s been in the back of my mind—you know, that hope. That hope that something exciting and wonderful might happen to me.”

Alabama still had no idea what she was babbling about. She turned to Gladdie, who arched her brows in return. “Bev applied to be the first teacher in space.”

A laugh burbled out before Alabama could stop it. Then she looked again at those tears and realized that Bev was genuinely crushed. She struggled for something to say, but all she could manage was, “But you’re a home ec teacher!”

Bev’s eyes flashed. “I think it would be neato for the first teacher in space to be a home economics instructor. It could help give the subject a little of the respect it deserves.” She sniffed. “And I teach health, too, you know.”

Wow.

Alabama had to admit she was impressed. Looking at Bev, with her wraparound skirts and floral blouses, no one would guess the woman harbored dreams of being an astronaut.
Astronaut
reminded her of
The Right Stuff,
what’s-his-name the senator, and Sigourney Weaver in
Alien
. Was that how Bev saw herself? Sigourney Weaver floating around in zero gravity, beaming down meal planning and hygiene lessons?

She struggled to think of something more to say to her aunt. “Better luck next time” didn’t seem to fit the occasion. For one thing, Bev was thirty-eight. At some point, a person was too ancient to dream of becoming an astronaut, or being anything besides whatever boring thing they actually were.

“I guess I wasn’t born a lucky person.” Bev allowed herself one last moment of public moping. Then she squared her shoulders and became irritating again. “But that’s just too darn bad, right? A person has to persevere and create her own luck.”

Gladdie mumbled skeptically, but Alabama was too appalled by her own thoughts to agree or disagree.
My God. For a moment there I almost liked her.

 

That night at dinnertime Alabama settled in to watch television and eat peanut butter and crackers, but Gladdie tapped her on the shoulder. “You come to dinner with me.”

After the tapioca incident, the prospect of going down to the dining room made Alabama anxious. “But—”

“No buts. We’re not going to hide you away up here like a criminal.”

She didn’t feel like a criminal. She just wanted to watch
Love Connection.

At her grandmother’s insistence, however, Alabama got up—although she made a solemn vow to leave the dessert buffet alone. Even if it was chocolate chip cookie night.

The first person they saw when they got off the elevator was Wink. He sat next to Alabama at the table and did tricks with his food, making a cucumber disk disappear (she could see it in his other hand) and tossing cherry tomatoes in the air and catching them in his mouth. His success rate hovered around 30 percent, but each time he caught one, he winked at her in triumph. It was a little like sitting next to a seven-year-old. Across the table, two ladies spoke in hushed tones about Rock Hudson, who had AIDS, and on Alabama’s right, Gladdie and another woman were discussing a plane crash that had happened off the coast of Ireland. Alabama turned when she heard them mention a number over three hundred.

Three hundred victims. The number knocked the wind out of her. All those people . . . even people she didn’t know . . . lost. Three hundred people—but a lot more than three hundred people left behind, wondering what had happened. Maybe kids all on their own now. They were lost, too.

The sound of a fist striking the table made Alabama jump, and she twisted back. Wink was staring straight ahead, his face a reddish purple.

“He’s choking!” Gladdie cried out. “Somebody run for help!”

The only one in the room capable of running, Alabama hopped up and sprinted toward the front office, shouting Brenda’s name until she saw that the office was closed for the weekend. She grabbed the reception phone and punched the button for The Villas’ health center, bleating out a cry for help. Then she raced back to the dining room, where a woman was pounding weakly on Wink’s back.

“Here.” Alabama nudged her aside. She’d studied the Heimlich maneuver in school once, and had practiced it on a friend in a goofing-around sort of way. She wrapped her arms around Wink’s middle. “Can you stand up?” she asked him.

He didn’t answer, but with her half hauling him, he lurched to a bent-kneed stance. She squeezed hard, but nothing came out of him—not even a wheeze. She tried again, harder this time, trying to picture what the teacher had taught them, with fists at the base of the diaphragm. But she must not have done it right. Or whatever it was in his windpipe—one of those cherry tomatoes, she guessed—was wedged tighter than a boulder in a drinking straw.

Beneath her hands, Alabama could feel the life draining out of him. People were talking at her—voices intent on instruction and nervous encouragement. She didn’t hear them. She was whipped back in time, back to the cool, carpeted room in the funeral home where her mother was. So still, so cold. Not really her mother at all. Her mother without life, without emotions, without the ability to sing off-key at the top of her voice . . . her mother without those things was nothing.